L'Etranger Chapter 2 - Bright Lights
Author's Note: As mentioned in the story summary, this story is essentially Beth-centric, and I consider it gen, although it'll touch on a number of relationships both het and same-sex. I will coredump my thoughts about Beth's sexuality and romantic relationships in a journal post at some point; however, don't assume that because I put femslash up front in Chapter 1, that this story is "about" Beth being gay, or indeed being straight. If it's about anything, it's about romantic relationships being neither the cause of, or solution to, Beth's problems. I'll update the pairing tags as we go along as needed. One romantic/sexual relationship that definitely won't be in here is Borgov/Harmon; I'll be exploring that relationship, but only platonically. So, a heads-up that this is probably not the place to look if you really want to see that particular pairing. I hope you'll read nonetheless.
0000000000000000
It's in the early mornings that Alice likes to come to her, when the sheets are wrinkled and the light outside is cold, trailing streams of logic and disaster.
"You're like a fractal," she said, combing through Beth's hair. "Infinite and complex. Hold still."
Beth squirmed in the hard seat.
"This, though," she said, threading her fingers through Beth's bangs. "This is a tangent. We can't have that. Hold still so I can turn you back into a sine." She snipped carefully.
"Mama."
"Hold still, Beth. I want this to be even."
Alice's attention was always focused to a laser point. When she listened, when she was really there, when she set out to lick Beth into shape like a lioness, it felt infinitely real.
"Mom."
"What, Beth. I'm concentrating."
"The girls at school get their hair cut at the beauty parlor."
"The girls at your school are no metric of anything. The girls at your school," she said, tilting Beth's head carefully, "live in a paradox of dependence which they can't even see. I'm sure they do get their hair done at the beauty parlor, and I'm sure the dollars burn up in their mothers' hands. I wish I'd never sent you to that school. Lift your chin a little."
Beth obliges. The reddy strands fall on the embroidered left side of her dress.
"You listen to me, Beth," said Alice, finishing up and beginning to brush the clippings off her shoulder, "most people live in a prison they can't even see. They walk in and it looks like paradise, it looks so cozy, it looks like everything they ever wanted. And then they can never find the door. Some of us," and she reached for the soft brush, "burn it down just to get out. Just to make sure we can never be weak and go back. But I know that prison, Beth, and we won't go there. Did you read yet?"
"Not yet."
"Let's get your book, then. In a minute. Close your eyes."
The brush was delicate across her eyelashes.
0000000000000000
The flash when she first steps out of the hallway into the airport proper is blinding, disorienting. White. Then there are four more in close succession. She's stopped dead, and Townes walks into her.
"Beth!"
"Miss Harmon!"
"Beth!"
"Beth, what did you think of the Soviet Union?"
"Beth, how did it feel to beat Borgov?"
"Beth, how does it feel to be the champion?"
Of course. Of course. She hadn't really thought they'd be here. Booth probably called ahead before the plane left. That asshole.
Beth steps to one side, out of the path of the startled fellow travelers who are still filtering past her, and tries on her best smile, angling her head just a little to the right. "Didn't you all get your fill in Moscow?"
"Most of them probably didn't get visas in time," Townes murmurs, from behind her right ear. "Only the big nationals and internationals. Do you want to get out of this?"
"Why would I want to get out of this?" she says, from between exposed teeth.
"Beth, the Washington Post," says the loudest-voiced of the group in front of her. "How does it feel to have beaten the world's greatest chess player?"
"I think you'll find," she says, letting the edges of her voice thin to a point, "that I am now the world's greatest chess player. Next."
"Miss Harmon, Miss Harmon. Ladies' Home Journal. May I ask who your gentleman companion is?"
Townes has been trying to look inconspicuous and supportive at the same time; Beth fastens her hand on his elbow and draws him gently forward. "This," she says smoothly, "is D.L. Townes, a professional journalist and a fine competitive chess player. He has been a friend since we played chess on the Kentucky circuit together, and he was kind enough to act as my escort on occasion in Moscow. Next question."
"Miss Harmon," says the Ladies' Home Journal reporter, "is Mr. Townes your boyfriend?"
Beth drops her smile. "Mr. Townes is a journalist, and was covering my matches in Moscow from a professional perspective. I'll take no more questions of this kind. Next!"
"Miss Harmon, Miss Harmon. Beth. I'm from Newsweek magazine. What did you think about being in Russia?"
"I was treated kindly, and I was very glad to have the opportunity to play against their greatest chess players. However, I'm now very tired and jetlagged, and I would like to find a bed for the night. You gentlemen go on home." Beth gives them her very best dazzling smile, and tugs at Townes' hand; obligingly, he picks up both their cases again, and begins a steady tramp towards the exit.
"Those vultures," she mutters under her breath.
"I think they went pretty easy on you, actually." Townes is keeping his eyes fixed on the floor, but she can tell he's alert. "You're going to have to expect to be of huge interest now. Beating the best Russian player, and being in Moscow right now, and as a woman…"
"What does that have to do with it?" she snaps, wheeling on him.
"Beth, don't take this out on me," he says, with a steady look, but she can see a slow flush climbing. "You know you aren't… usual. Anything that happens between us and Russia, it, well, it matters. You're more important than you know. And if you won't give them a story… they'll make one up. You'll have to tell them what to do with you, because they won't know."
"Oh, God," she mutters, letting her shoulders slump. "As if the State Department wasn't bad enough. Where are we going?"
"I have to get back to Lexington," he says, rounding his shoulders apologetically. "To file my copy. I have a flight booked… Do you want to come with me?"
"No," she says impulsively. "No, I have things to do in New York. I have people here. I'll, I'll get a room."
"Okay." He puts the suitcases down on either side with her, and stands considering her for a minute. "Shall I walk you to the cab rank?"
"No, I'll be okay. Go get your flight."
Townes leans in close and kisses her cheek, and she closes her eyes.
0000000000000000
"Where to?" the driver asks, tapping fingerless-gloved hands on his wheel.
She'd meant to ask him for a hotel, she just about has the money, but on another impulse, she gives him Benny's address.
"Okay, little lady," he says, turning the key; the engine coughs rustily. "You want the scenic route?"
She'd thought New York City would be everything once. Compared to Kentucky; compared to a trailer in the ass end of nowhere. But somehow it's all come to seem to her like an extension of Benny's bare, pent-up basement; a promise that collapses as soon as it comes close. When she'd met Benny, in Vegas, he'd seemed so… assured. And then…
She won't soon forget the way down to his thin plywood door; the way he shrank a little when he saw her looking around in disbelief. It's well after midnight, and there's no noise from inside. She knocks.
There's a long, long silence, and then a shuffling noise from inside. She knocks again.
"All right, keep your hair on," says Benny's voice. "Who the hell is it? Suzanne?"
"No," she says sharply.
Benny's footsteps stop. "Then who is it?" he says, cruelly.
"Open the door, Benny. I came to see you like you wanted."
Benny unlatches the door and pulls it back, blinking at the light in the hallway; he's wearing loose pajama pants and an open shirt. "I don't recall saying I wanted you to come call in the middle of the night."
"Oh, grow up, Benny." She pushes past him into the apartment; she's feeling sharp and edgy, and she's beginning to know why she came here.
Benny closes the door behind him; she turns to face him from the center of his meager living room. "Well. I'm not sure you had to wake me up so I could say it. But congratulations, Beth. You did it."
"I know," she says, stretching her arms above her head, feeling her dress move against her legs. "World champion."
"You aren't world champion." Benny looks at the floor and crosses his arms across his pigeon chest. "That wasn't a championship. It was an invitational."
"You know as well as I do what it means." She crosses to him. "You're the only person who does."
Benny bites his lip and looks towards the windows. "Beth…"
"Were you watching?"
"I saw you on the news when you came out, yes. A real scene."
Beth puts a hand on his arm and slides one foot out of her shoe. "I came to see you, Benny," she says, beseechingly.
Benny looks at her squarely; his lips are set. "And you came to stay, did you? Brought your suitcase?"
"Would it be so bad if I did?" She traces a finger down the pale line of his bare chest.
Benny bats her hand away hard; his eyes are snapping sparks. "So you just thought you'd drop by, huh, Beth? Save yourself the cost of the hotel, maybe work off some frustration, let me know who's top dog from now on? Forget it." He marches back to the door and holds it open. "You can get a cab on the street."
"Benny…"
He looks at her eyes as she moves closer; inhales. "Have you been drinking?"
She's shaken. "No. Not a drop. That's not why…"
"So you can fuck up your life sober too, huh? That's great. Great. Good night, Beth." He pushes her between the shoulderblades until she's back in the hallway. "Call me when your head deflates."
"Benny…"
The door slams again.
0000000000000000
She'd cried, finally, in another cab on the way to a cheap hotel. She has almost nothing in her bank account right now after Moscow; there's a financial prize for the invitational, but it won't be deposited for a few more days, and rubles don't buy as many dollars as anyone would like.
("What's wrong, honey?" says the cab driver, and he sounds so like a radio ad for New York that she almost laughs. "Some no-good man been treatin' you wrong?" She laughs again when she realises he's right.)
When she finally opens the door at home, the air feels dusty and still. She drops her suitcase just inside the door, and wanders in, looking at the light slanting through the curtains she put up after taking down Alma's nets.
She left dishes in the sink. The trash is still full of empty wine bottles, and it smells stale and sharp.
It's late afternoon. Everything in the house is silent. A lawn mower is droning somewhere outside.
There are four tranquillizers upstairs in her bedside drawer. Under the false bottom of the drawer. She hid them there months ago. From who, she didn't know.
Beth sighs, and rolls up her sleeves.
0000000000000000
The next day she gets up at seven and makes coffee. There is no food. She studies the pamphlet with the games from the last world championship for two hours, laying them out on the board. Borgov played the Caro-Kann defense in his final match; took his knight to queen's bishop three. Checkmate after three hours. Then she goes grocery shopping.
The phone is ringing when she gets back; she picks it up automatically.
"Call for Miss Elizabeth Harmon?"
"Speaking."
"Miss Harmon, this is the White House. I'm Rob Mills, assistant to the Director of Communications for President Johnson, I'm holding Director Klein for you."
"I'm not free!" Beth blurts, in panic, and hangs the phone up. Then she wishes she hadn't.
The phone doesn't ring again for several hours. She goes back to the chess.
0000000000000000
The phone rings again when she's eating scrambled eggs at the kitchen counter; she drops her fork and scrambles to the phone, all butterflies.
"Hello?"
"Elizabeth Harmon?"
"Yes, this is she." The voice isn't the same one from before.
"Miss Harmon, this is Ben Blinkert calling from the U.S. State Department. We'd like you to come in for some debriefing on your trip to Moscow."
Oh, God. She slumps against the wall. She should have known that toerag Booth wouldn't be so easily shrugged off.
"Miss Harmon?"
She fumbles. "Yes, yes, I'm here. Why… why do you need to debrief me? All I did was play chess, I had Booth, I mean, the man you sent with me. He was with me all the time. I just played chess."
"Miss Harmon, we need you to come in for debriefing. Relations with Moscow are very complex, and you may have some critical information."
"But I'm home in Kentucky," she says, with rising panic. "I'm not… I flew home. I have to play chess. I have to go."
"Miss Harmon - "
She bangs the phone down hurriedly, and then takes it off the hook.
0000000000000000
The truth is, she has to think about money. She has to pay Jolene back, and pay her bills until the world championship, and buy food… The money from the invitational won't last that long, not long enough. None of the other US competitors had to pay all their own travel. She needs a tournament. A tournament that pays.
There is nothing she wants to do less right now than go and play in one of the podunk tournaments with decent cash prizes. Annihilate high-school players while trying not to faint from boredom. But Jolene put her every cent into the Moscow trip. Her law school money. And she wants to look Jolene in the face, next time they see each other. And after Jolene is paid back, with interest... It's a long time until the next big tournament.
For a second, she wishes she were Harry, and could fall out of love with chess and go do something else, something she had to work at. Something where she wouldn't want or need to be the best.
She goes out to buy Chess Review, and scan the tournament listings.
She has to train. The World Championship will play next year, and Borgov will be there. And he will have studied every one of her games in Moscow, and gone over them with the other Russians. But train how? With who? Who's left to challenge her, in this country?
She knows the one person she should call. But she can't call him. She can't.
Her phone's been off the hook for two days when she picks it up and dials the Lexington Herald-Leader.
0000000000000000
Townes's voice is warm and surprised when she gets him on the line. "Beth. Is everything okay? Did you not like my article, or something?"
"Your article?" She'd forgotten the reason the paper even sent him to Moscow.
"Yes, my article. I was kind of hoping it'd meet with your approval, more than some of the others."
"I, uh, I didn't read it yet."
There is a solid silence on the other end of the line.
"But I will, I will, Townes, I will. I'm sorry. I haven't read anything. I just couldn't. I've been shut away studying chess, and trying - " Trying to stay sober, she almost says; she bites it back. "Trying to figure out what next. I can't bear the articles, they just write about my clothes, and how I look - "
His voice is a lot cooler. "Is that what you think I wrote?"
"No, I know, I know you didn't. Please, I called because I need - "
"You need what?"
"I need - you to talk to me. To tell me what I should do next. How I get ready for the World Championship. I have to train, and I just - can we have dinner?"
Townes is silent; she holds her breath. She hears the snick of a lighter.
"Dinner in Lexington. Can we meet? Please, Townes. I'll pay."
Townes exhales. "Tomorrow night. Meet me at the offices? And I'm paying. Or the paper is, anyway. You're a Kentucky icon. Another exclusive interview won't hurt."
There's a pain low in her belly. "Thank you," she says. "Tomorrow night. I'll meet you. Thank you."
The phone rings again as soon as she puts it down, and reflexively she snatches it back up. "Townes?"
"Miss Harmon." The voice is cold and male. "This is Director Clint from the State Department. Russian desk. You've been avoiding our calls."
The ache from her conversation with Townes turns straight into blinding panic. "Director! I, I haven't been avoiding you, I just got back from New York, I've been so busy - "
He cuts her off. "Miss Harmon, are you an American patriot?"
It throws her. "Am I a - what?"
"Are you an American patriot? Do you believe in your country?"
"Of course, of course I do, that's not why I - "
"Miss Harmon, you visited Moscow only with our support and backing. If you wish to be granted any more visas, you need to present yourself at the State Department for debriefing. We will not permit you to be a loose cannon. Too much is at stake. Do you understand?"
"I understand," she says, cold. Her fingers curl against each other, the nails digging in.
"Good. I understand you've returned to Kentucky. Our agents will meet you at the State Capitol in two days' time for debriefing. You need to make yourself available as long as we require. Do you understand?"
Please may they not send Booth. "I understand."
"Thank you, Miss Harmon. Present yourself at nine a.m. sharp at the Capitol in two days' time. Goodbye."
Click.
0000000000000000
Next time: Travel! Borgov! And the revenge of the State Department.
If you have a question, comment, or criticism, please leave it. I always, always respond to comments, because I live for them and appreciate the time it takes to make them, and because I love nothing more than to talk about characters with people. I anticipate at least another 3-4 parts to this story.